


Upside

by samchandler1986



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 19:11:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12847653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: As El, Dustin and Will count down the days until the rest of the gang return from summer camp, Hopper has a new mystery to solve.Maybe there's more than one gate that needs closing.





	1. The Lake

**August - 1923**

“Eddie, are ya coming?”

Between them the boys have a pail of fish – more than enough for Mother to turn into a hearty stew. The sun is hot overhead and they’re out of soda.

“In a minute,” Eddie calls.

“I ain’t waiting,” declares his brother, picking up the bucket. A little water sloshes over the rim – it’s heavy for one to carry. “I mean it. I’m gonna tell Annie that I fished all of these myself, too.”

“Just a minute,” Eddie repeats.

He is standing barefoot in the shallows of the creek, where it flows under the trees and becomes impossible to follow. A tangled maze of ankle-turning roots, tall staves of black willow forming an effective blockade. Dappled sunlight is reflecting in the smooth dark water, occasional sequin flashes of light.

Except for here, in the twist of an old root, curving into the water. In the curl of the wood there is a patch of bright blue sky reflected. Eddie looks up again, checking to be sure. Green leaves shade overhead, the canopy of the flat-wood. It doesn’t make sense that there is sky in the water. He prods at it with his fishing rod.

The water remains still and calm. No ripples. Like he’s sunk the rod through solid glass somehow. He can see the wood under the surface still. It’s weird.

“Petey?” he calls, unable to tear his eyes away from the strange phenomenon.

But his brother has gone, taking the pail of fish with him.

Eddie prods the sky in the water again, sinking his pole all the way down. Which is strange too, because he’s standing ankle deep in mud, just inches away. Must be deep hole there, maybe dug out by a root. A real deep one, because he can’t find the bottom at all, even sinking up to his elbow, his shoulder in the water.

He takes a breath. Maybe it’s a stupid thing to do, but the sky in the water is ever so invitingly blue. And his hair will dry out quickly in the afternoon sun. So, Eddie takes a deep breath, and plunges his head under the water. He can still see the patch of blue sky like it’s stuck to the bottom of the river.

He reaches out with both hands to try and touch it—

If there had been anyone to watch, on the surface, they would have seen his bare feet disappear under the surface without a ripple or a splash at all.

* * *

**August – 1985**

He’s standing on the edge of a lake, bright blue sky above.

There’s a hut, squatting on an island in the middle of the water. An ancient looking thing, like some crannog. But wood-smoke rising through the rough chimney hole is testament to its continued occupation.

There are birds singing in the trees and the sun is warm on his skin. It’s peaceful, and he feels safe—

“Where is this?”

He blinks, but it’s not the first time El has wandered into one of these dreams.

“I’m not sure.”

“Is it a memory?”

“No.”

“Maybe… maybe it’s where Mike is?”

It’s a nice idea but he knows it’s not true – he’s seen the photos from last year’s summer camp. “No,” he says, gently. “I’m not sure it’s even in the state.”

The rolling grass of the hills beyond the lake doesn’t feel like the countryside of Indiana somehow.

She takes his hand – scared. “Come back Will. Please?”

“I’m coming,” he says, and he means it. But it’s hard, hard to turn away from the soft grass and warm sun; the feeling of peace.

For a second, in the water near their feet, there are pine trees reflected rather than clear blue sky.

* * *

He opens his eyes to the yellowy half-light of breaking dawn filtered through cheap curtains. He can hear Jonathan and his Mom talking in the kitchen, smell eggs frying.

“Hey, kiddo,” she says, giving his shoulder a squeeze as he drops into his usual seat at the table. Jonathan slides a plate of scrambled eggs and toast under his nose. “Still keen for the drive-in tonight?”    

He nods. “Dustin’s seen it twice already at the Hawk. Can… can he still come too?”

“Sure,” she says, with a smile. “I’ve gotta go to work, but I’ll be back at four o’clock sharp.”

“I’ll be here,” he reassures.

She smiles back at him, nods, and it’s almost like they’re a normal family. Almost like she believes him, and doesn’t head off to work with a lurking fear in her heart that circumstance will prove him a liar.

Will sighs, and takes a bite of his eggs.

“You at the Castle today?” Jonathan checks.

“Probably,” he says, tiny spark of rebellion burning in a very unfamiliar hearth. But Jonathan doesn’t really deserve a mutiny against his protectiveness; none of them do. “I mean, yeah. That’s where we’ll be. I’ll take the radio.”

 “Cool. I might come along this evening too.”

He’s missing Nancy almost as much as they’re missing Mike and Max and Lucas, Will guesses. Not that they talk about it.

“See you later.”

* * *

Dustin and El are already waiting for him at the Castle, books spread out between them. It’s been a good summer really, introducing El to a haphazard mixture of comics, textbooks and Tolkien. Today she’s lying on her stomach colouring a picture of Spiderman.  Will smiles at the speech bubble she has painstakingly written out, her handwriting still childishly round:

_With great power comes great responsibility._

Still, none of them can really escape the feeling they are the left-behind members of the gang. Languishing in Hawkins while the others enjoy canoeing, pony-trekking and everything else summer away from home, away from parents, might bring. They’ve stuck up Max’s postcards from California and Lucas’s letters from Space Camp. Jonathan helped them light a campfire of their own a few nights ago, and they toasted marshmallows and watched sparks fly up to join the stars. But it’s not quite the same.

And underneath it all is the lurking fear – that maybe this is _it._ Maybe they’ll never get to leave – just carve out a sad little groove for themselves here in Hawkins. It’s why Jonathan and Nancy spend as much time with their heads bent over textbooks as they do, why Dustin is struggling through tenth-grade calculus problems on a sunny summer’s morning.

Will isn’t sure, anymore, that there’s a route out like that for him. A horrible sense that his future holds something else. Dark and terrible. Maybe it’s the way everyone still frets around him, like he’s made of glass. The burn on his side, where Nancy drove out the Mind-Flayer with hot iron, is starting to feel less like a battle-scar and more like a brand.

El scratches at her wrist, where the blue bracelet Hopper gave her covers up her tattoo. Glances up at him and gives him a small smile.

At least he’s not going to walk into that darkness alone.


	2. The Wild Man

“If my calculations are correct,” says Dustin, “when this baby hits eighty-eight miles per hour… you’re gonna see some serious _shit_!”

Giggling, El gives the soap-box car a push. Dustin whoops as he gathers speed down the hill. They’re running to keep up with him now, wheels rolling nicely over the grass.

“Roads! Where we’re going we don’t need roads!”

Will is laughing, falling behind the runaway cart—

—and the whip-crack sound of the tripwire trap they’ve set echoes through the trees, startled birds taking flight.

“Son of a bitch,” curses Dustin, slamming on the brakes. He slews to a halt, tumbling out of the cart, grazing his hand. “Aw, f—”

“Come on,” says Will, pulling his friend to his feet. “We need to hide.”

“It’s probably just another hunter,” Dustin grumbles, wiping his bleeding hand on his jeans.

“No,” says El, quieting his peevishness in an instant with that one soft word.  “This way.”

They follow her into the scrub, wriggling deep into the bushes. There’s a noise – a strange keening, low and pained. Not exactly human, but not the unearthly cry of a Demodog—or worse—either.

“What is that?” Dustin mouths.

Will shakes his head, out of ideas, until a figure emerges from the treeline at the bottom of the hill.

It might be a man, tall and scrawny. His feet and chest are bare; his only clothes seem to be a sort of skirt, made of woven rushes. He’s leaning on a staff. Wild, in the realest sense, apart from the ragged cap perched on his nest of tangled dark hair.

“Is he—?” Dustin starts.

“Hopper,” says El, firmly.

“What?”

“Now!”

“Okay, okay,” he accedes, fumbling for the box on his hip. “Chief?” he says into the radio, “can you hear me, over?”

A crunch of static. “This better be a real emergency, kid, for you to be on this channel.”

“It is,” says El. She never needs a microphone, her voice coming straight out of the amplifier Dustin winces at the whistle of feedback in his ear, but doesn’t complain.

“Where are you?” says Hopper. All trace of crabbiness gone.

“Top of Pickford’s Hill,” Dustin replies. “There’s a… man, I guess. But he looks… well, wild. He set off one of our tripwires, so he must have come from the direction of—”

“—Of the lab.” Hopper finishes the sentence grimly. “Listen to me, are you safe?”

They both look to El. “Yes,” she says. “Hiding.”

“Good. Stay hiding. I’m coming now.”

“Okay.”  

“Does he have a weapon?”

“Who?”

“The man,” says the Chief with chilly patience. “Does he look like he has—”

“No, no,” Dustin says, “he’s not really wearing many clothes even. Just a-a grass skirt.”

“… a grass skirt,” Hopper repeats, and it’s a mark of how weird their lives have gotten that he doesn’t even sound particularly surprised at this. “Stay hiding,” he repeats. “I’m five minutes away.”

* * *

“So what do you reckon?” says Callahan, hands on his hips as he peers through to the wild-man in the holding cell. “Hippy that got lost in the woods?”

Powell shakes his head. “This is some weird-ass shit, I’m telling you.”

“Ah c’mon. It’s worth it to see the Chief trying to talk sense into someone that deep in an acid trip—”

“That ain’t an acid trip. Look at his feet. He’s been walking without shoes for years. I’m telling you – it’s weird shit. Like the business with that Russian spy kid and the gas leak all over again.” Powell shudders.

“Nah,” says Callahan dismissively. “This is just straight-up hippy nonsense—” He stops abruptly as Sam Owens enters the station.

“You rang?” the Doctor quips.

“In here,” calls Hopper, and he is ushered though to the cells by Flo.

“You were saying?” deadpans Powell.  

* * *

Hopper pinches the bridge of his nose. “Anything you want to tell me about?”

Doc Owens is more fascinated than frustrated by the silent mystery man, huddled on the holding cell bench.  “This one’s got nothing to do with me, boss. I swear.” He picks up his bag. “I should examine—”

“I wouldn’t get too close if I were you.”

“Why’s that?”

Hopper holds up his hand, where livid purple teeth marks are still clearly visible. “He bites.”

“That I _do_ have something for,” the Doc replies, fishing antiseptic out of his bag. “You’re lucky,” he says, cleaning the wound, “the human jaw is—”

“I’m aware,” says Hopper. The man in the cell is watching them closely now, brown eyes glinting somewhere behind a mane of tangled hair. “We’re not going to hurt you,” he repeats. “Wherever you’ve come from—”

“242 Kleinfelter Road,” rasps the man suddenly.

“What was that?”

Silence. The beady-eyed stare of a trapped animal.

“Where do you come from?” Sam tries.

“242 Kleinfelter Road,” the man snaps back instantly.

Hopper and the Doc exchange a glance. “What’s your name?” says the Chief.

“Eddie. Eddie King.”

“Nice to meet you Eddie, I’m Sam. You wanna tell me how you ended up in the woods?”

“Fishing.”

“And, what, you got lost?”

More silence. Sam puts his head on one side, enjoying the challenge in spite of himself. “Try and keep him talking,” says Hopper.

“Why, where are you going—?”

But the Chief is already gone.

* * *

Half an hour later, Sam limps back into the charge room.

“Any joy?” asks Callahan.

He shakes his head. “Practically catatonic again. Where’s Jim?”

“Chief went to pull some records from the County Library.”

“Did he say when—?”

But the question is redundant; Hopper sweeps back into the station before he’s finished the sentence. Wilder-eyed than before, and smelling of chain-smoked cigarettes. “My office,” he says.

He closes the door behind them, pulling a manila folder out from his jacket. “Eddie King,” he says. “The name rang a bell from when Will went missing.”

Sam reads the first few lines. “This kid disappeared in 1923,” he says, nonplussed.

“Yeah.”

“Well, our wild-man’s a little leathery looking, I’ll grant you, but he’s not more than forty.”

Hopper fishes out another cigarette. “So, what? You think he read about the case and decided to take on a long-lost kid’s identity?”

“You sound sceptical, but what’s the alternative? He’s got a time-machine out there in the woods?”

“That’s the sort of shit you have to tell _me_.”

Sam smiles. “Jim, trust me. If we’d have had a time-machine at the lab, I wouldn’t be standing talking to you now.” His disarming smile fails to break Hopper’s icy stare. “Lottery numbers,” he explains. “I’d have found out the lottery num— you know what? Never mind.” He watches the Chief smoke his nervous cigarette for a minute. “Look,” he tries again. “He needs admitting to a psychiatric unit, assessing properly. I can arrange that—”

“You call me,” Hopper says. “The second you think you’ve found out who he really is. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” smiles Sam. “I’ll go arrange for the transfer.”


	3. The Allies

The kids are lounging on the sofa, half-watching a film. The boys speculating quietly about the wild man: who he is, where he might have come from. El is quieter. She usually is.

Joyce finishes her drying up, still watching the girl from the kitchen. She can normally tell when Hopper is about to return just from the way El turns to stare at the door. Tonight, Joyce slips outside early, hoping to catch him first. She lights up a cigarette. More for show than want or need.

He pulls up about a minute later, unfolding from his truck, the ember-glow of his own cigarette a point of light in the dark.

“Hey,” he says, coming to join her.

“Hey.”

“They all okay?”

“They’re fine, Hop. What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure.”

A lie, and not one she’s prepared to let fly. Not tonight. “No.”

“Okay,” he tries again, “I’m sure… but it sounds crazy.”

Fingers of dread squeeze her heart at those words, even though she’s been preparing herself to hear them all afternoon. She takes a deep draw from her cigarette. “How-how crazy?”

He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. She notices his bandaged hand for the first time; almost reaches out to catch it, ask what happened. Holds back rather than interrupt his story.

“I think this wild man they found was the last kid that went missing from Hawkins. Before Will.”

She blinks, opens and closes her mouth a few times. “But you said—? Wasn’t that—?”

“Decades ago. Yeah.”

“And he’s been in… _that place_ … ever since?”

“I don’t know. I don’t see how he could have survived so long. But I don’t buy Doc Owens’ theory he’s some sort of delusional out-of-towner either.”  

She snorts. “Owens… I don’t know why you waste your time with him, anyway.”

He shrugs. “He’s one of few people around with half a brain who knows how… weird things can get.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t trust him.”

“Neither do I. But we’re pretty thin on allies when it comes to this stuff.”

“Allies? _God_ , Hop. When did this… when did our lives turn into _this_?”

“I know. I know.” Instinctively he puts his arm around her skinny shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? _You_ didn’t bring this here,” she says. But she leans into his side, letting him pull her close. When the bottom’s falling out of the world what’s the harm in having some company on the journey down? She sighs. “What do you want to say to the kids?”

“The truth,” he says. “We don’t know anything yet. Doc Owens is investigating. That they’re not to go back to the Castle for a while.”

Joyce winces, in agreement but knowing what the reaction is likely to be. She’s ready to turn back inside and make the best of it, but instead the words seem to fall out of her mouth. Spoken against his arm, as her fingers trace the edge of the bandage on his hand. “I don’t know if I can do this again.”

And he just nods, like he understands. And maybe he _does_. The nights of silent crying into a cold pillow where Bob should have been lying; the sense that if anything else of these precious things she has left is taken she will simply disintegrate. He’s cried similar tears over Sarah, over Diane. Devotes his life now to the only good thing that seems to have come out of that wretched, wretched lab.

“I know,” he says. “I know.”

* * *

He’s standing on the edge of a lake, bright blue sky above. There are birds singing in the trees and the sun is warm on his skin. It’s peaceful, and he feels safe.

The hut is still there, squatting on the island in the middle of the water. But there’s a darkness inside now, no more wood-smoke rising. Empty.

Will takes a step forward, but the ground seems to crack underneath him and he’s falling… falling…

He lands in darkness and shallow water. “H-hello?”

There is no answer. But quiet, almost on the edge of hearing, someone is crying.

He’s scared, there’s no denying it. But he’s often scared since that fateful ride home from Mike’s house. So he takes splashing steps through the darkness, trying to find the person who is crying.

A bed. A small shape, huddled under a familiar crocheted blanket. “Mom?” he manages. “Mom!”  Eyes wide, he reaches out, but she’s insubstantial as smoke under his fingers.

She looks right through him, shoulders heaving, crying silently.

“Mom,” he says again, crying himself now. Wanting to help but no idea _how_ —

—ou awake buddy? Will?”

He opens his eyes to Jonathan’s concerned face.

“What’s the matter?”

“Time to get up,” says his brother. “We were going to go take some photographs at dawn together. Remember?”

“I remember.”

“Well hurry up, then. Or we’ll miss it.”

He nods, the dream already forgotten. Wipes his wet cheeks and rolls out of bed, eager to start the day. Follows his brother out into the grey before the sun without a backward glance.

* * *

“Okay, so you remember what I said about the length of exposure right?”

“Right.”

“So, this is going to blur the water but keep the scenery around it sharp. It’ll make it look kind of… misty.”

“Right.”

Will looks through Jonathan’s old camera, struggling to remember all the settings he rattled off at the start of this tutorial. Tries to get the world how he wants it through the viewfinder. He thinks pen and paper might be more his medium, but he’s prepared to persevere with his brother.

It’s better than another day cooped up inside until Hopper feels the mystery of the wild-man is solved to his satisfaction, anyway.  

“Okay,” he says, “I think I have…” He stops, prickling unease standing all the hairs on the back of his neck on end. Lowers the camera. “Jonathan?”

His brother is nowhere to be seen.

Before, he might have thought Jonathan was just playing a trick on him. Now his breath comes in short gasps, heart already pounding. There’s nothing obviously amiss. It’s a sunny morning, green under the canopy of the trees. Birds are singing and the water flowing in the creek babbles pleasantly.

But he is alone.

He takes a step. Another. Standing where, seconds ago, his brother was. The ground is firm underfoot, no stretching thinness between one world and another than he can tell. “Jonathan?” he whispers, dry mouthed.

Something in the water catches his attention, a sequin flash of bright light. Doesn’t make sense when the trees are in full leaf overhead. He looks down, into the water—

—and suddenly he’s standing on the edge of a lake, blue sky above.

“Will!” shouts Jonathan, running at full pelt back towards him. “Will!” They collide, his brother crushing him in a fierce hug.

“It’s okay,” Will says, patting his arm. “I’m here too.”

Jonathan lets go. “Where _are_ we?”

“I don’t know. But I think it’s where the wild-man came from.” He points towards the crannog in the lake.

“It doesn’t feel like—”

Will cuts him off before he can finish the sentence, even the mention of that other world feeling like a bad omen. “It’s not the same place.”

“But it’s not Hawkins, either.”

“No.”

“So… how do we get back?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we… maybe we just look in the water again. I think that’s how we got here.”

“Sure. Sure.”

There is a long moment. Neither of them move. It’s warm and the sun is shining brightly. It doesn’t feel scary here; it feels… peaceful.

Jonathan smiles, half to himself. “Or… or we could spend a few minutes to take a few photographs? I mean, we’ve potentially found another world here, right? It would be stupid to not at least… try and record it a bit. Before we go back.”

Will smiles back, relieved. “Yeah,” he nods. “We should do that.”


	4. Windows

They are lying on the grass near the lake, bright blue sky above. The birds are still singing, the sun is still warm. “It’s nice here,” Jonthan says, sleepily.

“Yeah,” Will agrees.

“Peaceful.”

“Yeah.”

“We should come back.”

“Come… back?”

“Yeah.” Jonathan sits up on his elbows. “We can’t stay Will,” he smiles. “I promised Mom we’d be home for lunch, remember?”

“Oh.” Truth be told he had forgotten. “Okay. We should head… soon.”

Jonathan bites his lip, but he’s more amused than annoyed. “ _Now_ , Will.”

He doesn’t want to leave, but it’s not worth spoiling the mood with a fight. “Alright, alright,” he says good-naturedly, letting his brother pull him up to his feet.

They walk back to the edge of water, looking at their faces reflected in the calm pool. “So, how does this work?” Jonathan asks. “Do we just look at ourselves again, or…?”

“No,” says Will. He’s not really sure _how_ he knows, but he does. “There’s a spot in the roots here. Look, there - where the sky isn’t reflected—”

—and they’re back under the trees. Only something is terribly wrong; it’s not a summer’s day anymore, it’s dark and cold and for a terrible moment Will thinks they must be in that _other_ place.

Jonathan grabs hold of his hand as he starts to shake. “Come on,” he says. “It’s just later than we thought. Okay?”

“Okay,” Will gasps. He knows his brother is right; there are stars in the night sky when they emerge from under the trees and the pleasant smells of summer on the air. Still, how a few hours of exploration have turned into a lost day demands an explanation Will just can’t fathom.

Jonathan swears under his breath as they reach home – the house is aglow with lights and Hopper’s Blazer is pulled up in the driveway. “We’re in so much trouble,” he winces.

“I know,” Will grimaces. But it could be so much worse, really – it’s almost a relief to sheepishly open the door and face the waiting wrath – even Hopper’s shouting so much better than the alternative.

* * *

Hopper flicks through Jonathan’s photographs one more time. Knees almost around his ears as he waits outside the ward for Doctor Owens, sitting on a chair far too small. Blue sky, calm water. The hut in the water a prehistoric relic in an otherwise virgin landscape.

Hopper drums his fingers on his knee.

And the lost hours on Will’s wristwatch. If it was any other teenage boy he’d have his doubts about that little detail – but the Byers’ boys aren’t in the business of making their mother’s life anymore stressful than it already is. He believes them, when it comes right down to it.

Which means they somehow skipped about six hours out of their day…

Sam sticks his head out of the door at last. “You can come in.”

He leads the Chief through, limping down a linoleum corridor to the room at the end where Eddie King is now in residence.  “How’s he doing?”

“More conversational than when you last saw him.”

“Any ideas as to who—?”

“I’m having to give serious consideration to the fact he might be exactly who he says he is,” Sam replies sharply. Apparently still annoyed at the casual disregard for the laws of physics and sanity this situation demands; as If he didn’t used to manage a tear right through this dimension into another.

“Really? You do surprise me…”

Sam ignores the sarcasm and knocks on the door of Eddie’s room before entering. “Hi Eddie,” he says, in that genial, unhurried way Hopper recognises from his sessions with Will. “You’ve got a visitor.”

“Policeman,” grunts Eddie.

“Yeah, I’m Chief Hopper,” Hopper says.

The man grunts. He looks younger still without his beard, maybe even younger than Hopper. He’s drawing something. Focussed on his wax crayons and paper, in a way uncomfortably reminiscent of Will in the thrall of the Mindflayer.

 “What are you drawing, Eddie?” Sam asks.

“The windows,” Eddie grunts. “Before I forget.”

“What’re the windows?” tries Hopper.

“They let you through,” Eddie says, meeting his eyes for the first time, just for a second. Hopper shudders, in spite of himself. “From one place to another.”

“Like, how you got from Hawkins—?”

“To the good place. Yes.”

“The good place?”

“That’s what he calls the place he was living,” supplies Sam.

“What’s the good place like, Eddie?”

Eddie merely grunts in reply, pointing to one of the many pictures stuck up around on the walls. It’s childish, scribbly, but Hopper thinks he can make out a hut in the water. Pulls out the photograph from his pocket again to make sure. It’s a match.

“Where’s that?” frowns Sam. “That’s not in Hawkins.”

“Apparently it is.”

“That… crannog in the lake. That’s a Scottish thing, prehistoric.”

Eddie looks up, frowning. “That’s my home.”

“You built it?”

Eddie nods, colouring furiously. “The cold ones helped.”

“Cold ones?”

Eddie ignores this question, but Sam points to another drawing – of hairy beards and stick-men bodies dressed in shaggy pelts. Hopper traces a finger over their frowning faces, as Eddie puts down his crayon.

“And Mother, of course.”

He smooths out the paper, leaning back to fully admire his portrait. It’s a woman, clearly; curving lines outlining a figure like the Willendorf Venus. Four lines make up her face, still somehow beatific in expression.  But there’s something in the scale of her, the way she dominates the page and the wax-crayon landscape around her, that reminds Hopper of Will’s drawings. A similarly immense figure, a similar skin-crawling sense of _power_ …

Hopper looks around the room, at all the little pictures. A trickle of ice seems to move down his spine, as he understands for the first time the scale of his problem.

* * *

“So, what do you think?”

Owens gives his cigarette a disapproving look, but thinks better of telling the Chief not to smoke in the neat little hospital office. “I think… this is a little more than I signed on for,” he sighs.

“Mmm. Me too.” Once, Hawkins PD has been an easy way to sink a few decades en-route to his early grave. He forgets that, sometimes.

“Once they find out—”

“They?”

“The people that used to run Hawkins lab,” Sam translates.  “Once they find out there are other worlds out there…”

“They’ll be back.”

“And not just them. I mean, if those pictures are real, the untapped resources out there alone... The space… We’d be looking at a new frontier.”

Only this frontier bites back, Hopper doesn’t say. It’s not that he disagrees with Owens, he’s just not sure who exactly is sizing up what world as the next great real estate opportunity.

“How do we close it?” he says instead.

“I don’t know. And I’m not sure that we _should_ _—_ ”

“Really? How many more people you figure we should bury before we decide it’s a bad idea to go poking around in places we don’t understand? You want the other leg chewing off first?”

Ringing silence follows this snap. He’s shaking, Hopper realises. Clenches his fist and grinds his teeth to push away the anger, masking terror.

Sam gives him his moment before trying again. “We don’t have evidence this world is anything like the uh-the—”

“The Vale of Shadows.”

Sam’s mouth compresses, as he swallows his amusement at the boys’ melodramatic name. “Exactly, yes. You’d know more than me about that, of course…”

“What?”

“The photographs.”

“Yeah. Someone already wandered in by accident.”

“And out?”

“This time." He stands, replacing his hat. "Look, you figure out for me how a little boy can spend sixty years in that place without coming back to see his family, and then maybe I’ll think about not smashing this gate shut. Until then...”

"Understood," says Sam. 


	5. Storm

Will’s feet splash in shallow water. It’s dark, deep dark, but he can feel _something_ out there.

“Mom?” he tries.

There is no answer. He can sense eyes on him though, through the dark. He splashes on a few paces, until he sees a bed; a shape huddled under blankets.

“Mom?” he calls again. It’s not right, this isn’t the bed in his mom’s room. There’s a thick comforter instead of a crochet blanket –

“Will?” quavers Eleven, standing.

The pieces fall into place. He realises what he’s seeing: Mike, sleeping peacefully in his bunk at summer camp. El, curled like a cat in the dark, keeping vigil at the foot of the bed.  There’s pink in her cheeks, fear in her face. “It’s okay,” he says. “I won’t… I won’t tell anyone.”

“I just…” she whispers, struggling for words.

“Want to know he’s safe,” he finishes for her. “I understand. I do.”

“How are you here?”

“Where _is_ here?”

“In Between.”

He digests this. “I’m not sure. I’ve been here before. A few times, maybe. Since…” He can’t finish the sentence, but she understands. Reaches out, instinctive, and squeezes his arm reassurance.

“Who are you looking for?”

“I-I don’t know. I didn’t even know I _was_ looking.”

“Be careful.”

“Why?”

“If you go looking too far… you might re-open the gate.”

“No,” he croaks, suddenly dry mouthed. “No, I don’t want to.”

Her hands fold around his. “I know. Wake up Will. Wake up and go home.”

She is dissolving, like smoke on the wind. “Okay,” he says, “okay.” Screws his eyes shut, opens them again.

He’s still standing in the darkness, in the In Between. Pinches himself, hard, to no avail.

“I want to wake up!” he shouts to the black. “Please! Please, I want to—” His voice cracks, and the tears come. “Mom,” he sobs. “Mom, _please_.”

And he can hear her voice, it seems to come from _everywhere_.

_I’ve got you sweetie_

_got you sweetie_

_got you sweet_

_got you_

Somewhere in the real world, he can tell, she has put her arms around his body. Like an anchor it drags him back. Out of the black. He’s waking up, to his relief.

But for a second in the dark, he sees whatever it is that watches. A flash of red eyes, silhouetting a grotesque bulbous body. Not the Mindflayer, but similarly colossal—

“I’ve got you sweetie,” says Joyce, as he blinks back into the reality he’s used to.

“Mom?”

“You were having a bad dream,” she explains, letting him go. “You were yelling in your sleep.”

“Was I?” He feels groggy, can’t remember his dreams at all. “I’m sorry. Is it breakfast time?”

She smiles, reassured that he’s thinking of his stomach rather than the night terrors he’s endured. “It is.” She ruffles his hair. “I should get on that.”

“I’ll help,” he says, shrugging off the bed clothes and moving to follow her into kitchen. 

* * *

There’s a storm coming in. Joyce wipes her hands dry and hurries out to collect the laundry, snapping on the line in the gathering wind.  

It’s a big one, clouds piling up on top of one another; a grey mountain range in the sky. As she hurries inside with armfuls of linen the first spots of rain fall, fat and heavy. In minutes they’re coming thick and fast, enough to rattle on the roof. The kids look up from their game at the dining table at the noise.

“Son of a bitch,” says Dustin. “There wasn’t supposed to be any rain today. I checked the forecast.”

“Language,” she chides, surprised he still colours pink at the reprimand. “Hopper can give you a ride when he comes to pick up El. If it’s still raining later.”

“Uh, thanks Mrs. Byers.”

A deafening crack of thunder makes them all jump.

“It’s really moving quickly…” says Will, going to look out of the window. They can’t even make out the end of the drive through the thick curtain of rain; gloomy as night now in the front room.

Joyce flicks on the lamp. “Summer storms can be that way,” she says, smiling reassurance she doesn't feel.

She leaves them watching the rain lash the windows, pretending she’s taking the laundry to put away. Pulls out the radio Hopper has left for her from the bottom drawer of her dresser instead.

_Now, how does it go…?_

* * *

The rain drums on the roof of the Blazer, running in riverlets over the windshield. Hopper reaches for his radio. “Callahan, you down on the 150 still?”

The radio crackles. “Yes Chief?”

“Got some weather coming in.”

“Copy that. Blue skies still here.”

“Huh.” It’s strange, a storm of this size so localised. And with anything strange, these days, he has the creeping fear—

 _Di-dah-dah-dah._ The radio sings in morse code. _Di-dah-dah-dah._

_J, J, J._

Their call-sign. J for Jim. J for Joyce. J for just get over here already.

He doesn’t need telling twice.

* * *

She watches El. It’s not fair, really, to treat her like some kind of human weathervane. But the girl’s tuned to another frequency, there’s no denying it. While she’s happily playing _Dungeons and What-Have-Yous_ with the boys, Joyce is happy. She’s starting to second guess calling Hopper over now. Bites her thumb anxiously, as she clatters about the kitchen, ostensibly making dinner.

Another booming crack of thunder, making her flinch. El’s head snaps round and her chair scrapes back across the floor without her needing to use her legs.

“What… what is it?” manages Dustin, dry mouthed.

“Something’s coming,” El says softly.

“What?”

She shakes her curly head. “I don’t know.” Her eyes are huge in her pale face. “Bad.”

Joyce opens a cupboard, which in other houses probably holds broomsticks and ironing boards. “Coming here?” she says.

“Yes.”

She pulls out her axe. “Like Hell it is.”

“Holy shit, Mrs Byers!”

She lets the profanity pass – if ever there’s a time for it, it’s now. “Get in the middle of the room,” she says. “Move the sofas round. Away from the walls.”

“Mom…?”

“It’s okay, baby,” she says, clasping a hand to Will’s slim shoulder. “I’m not going to let—”

“I know,” he says, less scared than she feared. “But, shouldn’t we call the police or something?”

“Hopper’s already on his way.”

“How—?” Dustin starts.

“I’ve got my own radio,” she explains, before another booming crack of thunder makes them all startle. “Behind the sofas.” The boys do as she asks, but EL stays on her feet, watching the door. “You too,” she order.

“I can—”

“I know. I know sweetie. But let me go first, okay? You can keep the boys’ safe if… if something happens to me.”

El looks doubtful at this, but does as she asks. Joyce redoubles her grip on the axe, turning to face the door. There is a long moment of silence, and then a scratching sound, metal on metal. Almost like a key being inserted into the lock—

The door catches on the security chain. “Mom?” says Jonathan. “Why—?”

She scrambles to let him in, soaked to the skin from his short run from car to door. “Quickly!”

“Is it… demo-dogs?”

“We don’t know. We don’t know.” She puts the chain across again. “Hop’s on his way.”

Jonathan nods. “Right.” Disappears for a moment into his room, returning with a large baseball bat with nails in it. “What? I made one like Steve’s.”

“And that’s been in your wardrobe this whole _time_?”

“Like your axe in the kitchen cupboard?”

She opens her mouth to argue the point; closes it again. “Fair enough. You let me go first, alright?”

“Mom, there’s no way—”

“You listen to me Jonathan Byers! I bought you into this world and _dammit_ —’

A rattling thump on the roof cuts her off. And another. Something landing; something much heavier than a raindrop. A skitter, roof tiles sliding and smashing.

The creature unfolds down from the gutter, pushing in through the window like the glass is Saran wrap. The wall warps with it – an impressive trick, if she hadn’t seen it before — cracking and falling as the monster steps inside.

“Get out of my house!” she yells, brandishing the axe. “Get _out_!”

The thing turns its head towards her. At least she thinks it’s a head. Like the Demogorgon there’s something vaguely humanoid about it. Two arms, two legs. Pinkish-purple skin mottled with blue veins. But the head is a mess; a grotesquely elongated skull like the dome of some ancient dinosaur. Two tiny black eyes, either side of slit nostrils. It has a bony beak rather than a mouth, which it clacks now.

And it can speak. The voice is thin and reedy, not human sounding at all. More like a bird mimicking a voice. “Byers,” it says.

“Get out,” she snarls again. “I’m telling you, get! Out!”

It regards her, black eyes unblinking. Some kind of reptilian intelligence sizing her up. Steps forward, hissing menacingly now, and she swings the axe…

It’s like swinging through treacle, the blade sticking in the air until she’s essentially hanging from it rather than moving it. Her eyes widen as she understands. Like El, this monster can move things without touching them.

The creature flexes its hands and she is suddenly flying through the air like she’s been thrown from a moving car. Jonathan goes tumbling on the other side of her, crumpling against the wall like a ragdoll. She’d scream, but it feels like there are cold fingers around her throat, choking her.

The sofa explodes outwards, knocking the creature over. The pressure on her neck releases and Joyce gasps for breath.

El stands, like a phoenix in her ashes, wiping blood from her nose on her sleeve. “Don’t,” she says, pacing towards the thing, struggling back onto its feet, “touch. My family!” She screams, driving the sofa at it again.

Only this time the furniture hangs in mid-air, like its weightless in space. The creature _crik-criks_ its beak, and a second monster unfolds down from the gutter, crawling inside through the hole in the wall. El is fighting them both, veins standing out on her pale face. She screams again, blood pouring from both nostrils, but it’s not going to be enough—

_Crack-crack._

Two pistol shots. Clean through the back of those hideously stretched skulls. The monsters fall dead to the floor. Without an opposing force, the sofa goes flying forward, taking some more of the wall with it. It finally rolls to a halt several metres from the house.

And Jim Hopper stands up, rubbing the top of his head where the sofa whistled past with mere inches of clearance.

“That was pretty close, kid,” he says.


	6. Battle

“They’re near the Castle.”

“How many are we talking?”

El’s eyes are closed, focus inward. “Four. Maybe more.”

“All heading here?”

“Yes.”

“Are they in a group or spread out?”

“A group.”

He nods, thinking hard. “We have to try and thin them out. We won’t be able to take on four at once.”

“Yes.”

He picks up the wet flannel again, gently wipes the blood still dribbling from her nose. “Take it easy for now kid,” he says. “Save your strength.”

Dustin clears his throat. “How can we help?”

“By staying safe and out of the way. You understand me?”

“But it’s me they’re coming for,” says Will softly. “It’s _me_ that’s putting you all in danger.”

“Sweetie, we don’t know that…” Joyce clasps his shoulders, intending to reassure, but he shrugs her hands away.

“It said my name.”

“Our name,” tries Jonathan. “Byers. Not Will.”

“Okay, fine, but which of us do you _think_ —?”

“Quiet.” Hopper doesn’t yell; he doesn’t need to.  “This isn’t helping. Look, we need to improve our defences.”

“There’s wire in the shed,” Dustin says. “If they’re coming from the woods we might be able to slow them down.”

Hopper nods. “It’s a start. Alright, we pair up. Joyce, you go with El. Will with me. Jonathan and Dustin—”

“Yeah, yeah, we can figure that bit out,” huffs Dustin.

“Wait-wait a minute—”

“Three of us who know how to lay the wires. Paired with the three who don’t,” Hopper says quietly, in the face of Joyce’s protest. “We’re out there for ten minutes. No more than that. If it’s not set up, it’s not set up. You come back inside. Is that understood?”

They nod, as one.

“Then let’s move.”

* * *

Water drips from the brim of his hat. It might yet play to his advantage, he tries to tell himself. He’s not built for stealth; the noise of the hammering rain might cover his movements.

Of course, he could do with firm footing and good visibility as well, for the plan to have a chance of working…

He wipes his face. No sense counting what he doesn’t have. He knows how to do this. For better or for worse, it’s always going to be a part of him. Like riding a bike.

His stomach clenches when he sees them, moving through the trees. Four of them. In a pack, like El said. They move like birds, bobbing those domed heads. Sniffing the air, unhurried. Clearly searching for something.

The move closer to his hiding place; tantalising close. Perhaps they’re in range already. He’s got seven shells in the shotgun – he can miss and still have enough ammunition. That’s not the problem though, he reminds himself. If they’re not distracted, they can rip the shotgun out of his damn arms, and then what good will he be?

He stays still, holding his nerve, willing them closer to the traps they have laid.

The leader stumbles, rolling into the brush. Better than he dared to hope, off its feet completely and shrieking horribly. He’s not nervous anymore. He stands, aims, fires. One of them goes down headless. His second shot catches another in the chest. He has time for a one shot more, clipping a third creature in the shoulder, before the shotgun flies out of his grasp.

He’s already running. If they have time to think, they’ll tear him apart. He barrels into the bleeding one. It’s lighter than he is, and they go tumbling into the bracken. The thing scrabbles at him, screeching horribly, and some invisible force closes around his throat.

He punches it in response, hard. Brings his knees and elbows to bear. No skill or honour to it; it’s kill or be killed time and he’s prepared to hit back with _anything_. Lights are winking on and off in his vision now, the dark closing in. His hands are slippery with blood; some of it his own—

There is a snapping sound, like someone breaking a broomstick handle over a knee. The monster goes limp. Neck broken. Through his strobing vision he can see El, picking her way through the trees towards him, nose bloody.

“You… okay…?” he wheezes.

She nods, helping him to his feet, as the others emerge from the house. “Joyce shot it.”

He rubs his neck. “Good,” he manages. The sky is clearing, blue behind the clouds. He’s shaking with adrenalin, teeth chattering, but they’re all still alive and it feels _good_.

“Hopper?” Joyce drops his pistol as she reaches them, catching hold of his arm to better look at him. “You’re _bleeding_ —”

“I’m fine,” he croaks. “We’re all fine.” He looks over her head, at Jonathan, Will and Dustin. “You did good. All of you did s—"

And he is suddenly flat on his back again, as if an invisible hand has swatted him over; holds him down.

The fifth creature is larger than the rest, the skin on its back knotted and scarred. It picks its way towards them almost daintily – looking for more tripwires. It waited, Hopper realises. It _learned_. He can hear El breathing hard in the dirt next to him, fighting it with every ounce of strength she has. Pointlessly.

 _Crik-crik_ goes the beak-mouth, as it stands over them, splayed in the mud like fallen toy soldiers. “Byerssss.”

 Will opens his mouth to speak—

“I’m Byers,” says Joyce loudly. “Joyce Byers. That’s me.”

“Mom, _no_!”

“You want a Byers,” she continues, shouting now, over the top of her son’s desperate protest, “you take me! Understand? _I’m_ Byers.”

The creature flexes a hand, clearly missing a finger, and all the air seems to be squeezed from his lungs. He can’t speak, he can’t breathe.

The creature bends to examine Joyce, eye to eye. “Byerssss,” it hisses again.

She shrieks, pulled up onto to her feet, as if by an invisible hand. The creature turns tail, loping away through the trees, and Joyce is forced along behind it. He sees her lose her footing, fall. It doesn’t matter. The creature drags her on through the ferns, like she’s being hauled behind a horse.

By the time he can breathe again, sit up, she is gone.


	7. Mother

Joyce opens her eyes to tall pines filtering a bright blue sky.

They are still moving. The creature has maintained a breakneck pace since they left Hawkins. And there are others now, moving alongside. A pack. One that flanks her captor, moves with it through the trees. Her feet don’t drag in the earth anymore. She floats, suspended in air.

She thinks this might be the second escort they’ve had; that they’re crossing territory. Can’t be sure. There’s a coldness in her arms and legs. She can’t feel her fingers, and thinking is getting harder. 

They’re heading uphill now, and a third group falls in with her running monsters. For a moment the two packs run together, then the old guard peels away, leaving them with the new. She wonders why, and if it matters. Blood is running into her eyes again, from the cut somewhere on her head. She can’t move her arms to wipe it away.

She thinks she might be dying.

She’s come close once before. When Jonathan arrived, small and sickly, and earlier than he should. Placental abruption the doctors called it. She just remembers blood and pain. The absolute determination to see her little boy at the end of it all.

The same steel is at her core now, in spite of her lips turning blue, her shallowing breath. She will see her boys again.

She _will_.  

* * *

“I should go too.”

“No.” He loads the second magazine for his liberated carbine, not looking at her. “You can’t.”

“I can! I can help. I can _fight_.” 

“I know.” He finally meets her eyes, red-rimmed from the tears. Full of fear and _anger_. He can’t leave her like this. “Come here. Please?”

She crosses to him, lets him fold her into a hug. Shaking now with sobs. “Please don’t die,” El whispers into his chest. 

“I’m going to try really hard not to.”  His own eyes are leaking tears. “That’s why I need you here. Okay? You keep that door open for us long as you can. But if they come back, if there’s more than Doc Owens and his boys can handle… You close it. Understand? You keep them safe.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, kid,” he says, and he’s never meant the words more in his whole damn life. “It shouldn’t be like this. I should _never_ have to ask you to do this—”

“I know,” she whispers, clinging onto him. “Just come back. _Please_?”  

He nods. As if willing himself to return so strongly can somehow make it happen. “Yes,” he says. “I promise.”     

* * *

They carry her underground, through a twisting maze of curving tunnels; into a cavern. Darkness makes the size hard to judge, but the echoing _plink-plink_ of dripping water suggests an immense space. The monsters leave her on the ground, in the mud. Her legs are too numb to support her. She huddles into the dank dark and tries to gather her thoughts instead.

A rumbling starts. Barely perceptible at first. Like the grind of an enormous millwheel, stone on stone. She should feel scared but there’s no adrenaline left to trill in her veins. The rumbling gets louds, a physical thing vibrating in her chest. She crawls across the muddy floor, but with no idea where the rumble is coming from attempts to escape are futile. For better or for worse this is where she’ll make her stand.

She forces herself onto her feet, a sheer effort of will, as the rumbling intensifies. Now she can see the rounded curve of _something_ , immense in scale, larger than a house.  Barely illuminated by the reddish gleam of glowing eyes.

“Hello?” she calls. The dark drinks her voice. “Who’s there?”

“ **BYERS**.”

She clamps her hands over her ears instinctively. It makes no difference, the voice is so enormously loud it is painful.

“That’s me!” she shouts back. “What do you want?”

Something unfolds in the darkness; school-bus sized, rough-hewn. The fingers, she realises, of an enormous hand. One digit is larger than she is tall. She backs away, stumbles and falls. Tries to crawl again, fearing the giant hand will simply squash her, but that isn’t the intent. The finger brushes against her—

 

— _and she is calm. She feels warm and safe, like nothing can ever hurt her again_ _—_

 

_This isn’t right!_ The rational part of her brain is shouting at the rest of her. She knows she’s really dying in a cold damp cave underground—

 

— _it’s warm and safe, and no one can ever touch her again_ _—_

 

“What do you _want_!?”

 

_Stars wheel and turn, expanding and contracting. The crackle and hiss of an expanding universe filling ears that strain to listen for something,_ anything _, outside of itself_

_—they go about on two legs; almost blind and deaf to the cosmos their tiny planet spins through. Still, they think. They have selves and that makes them_ alike.

_It watches them, and a thousand years flee in the time it takes to consider what this means_

_—the woman makes her model from soft river clay; a self-portrait in rounded beads she bakes in flame. She whispers her hopes and ambitions to the little model, what she wishes for the next generation she is slowly growing inside herself._

_The idea has never occurred before, that it can_ make _more things rather than_ wish _for them_ _. That there is a concept for one that makes others that are_ alike _, a word._

Mother _, it thinks, as it builds their own version of those that go on two legs, half-blind and deaf. I am Mother—_

Joyce screams. It isn’t mean to hurt, she understands, but memories longer than the span of civilisation don’t fit comfortably in a human-sized brain.

 

_—HE came later._ Alike. _In some ways more than the little two-legged selves, more than her simulacra of those beings. In other ways less._

_Like Mother, HE has been alone for a long time, and the idea of other selves… fascinates._

_But HE is not enthralled. HE does not marvel at their little lives. HE seeks control._

_What HE makes is to this end: dark copies of other places from which HE can push through. From his plane of reality into theirs. HE pours beasts from his world into hers; their fierce mouths rip and tear her children to bloody pieces, rot and decay invading_

_Mother watches him, and HE watches Mother. For a thousand years they match their strength, blow for blow_

_—HE is wounded, she understands, but not by her. Something has bitten him back, fought against his dark tendrils pushed into other worlds. Something HE doesn’t understand; not yet. Mother has only a glimpse before HE shuts her out, but there is a word, a concept for this thing that has hurt him so._

_And the word is_ Byers _—_

 

“No,” moans Joyce, “no you can’t have him. He’s not yours. He’s mine. Do you understand? He’s my little boy. Not some weapon. He’s just my little boy…”

 

_Sorrow. Disappointment._

_Mother stretches out her will in the dark, speaks to her own children. Determination. Find Byers. Rest, replenish and then search again._

 

“Replenish?” Joyce says, through blue lips. “No… Please, no.”

 

_Sorrow. Disappointment._

 

Mother retreats, leaving Joyce alone with the _plink-plink_ noise of water on stone.

And then, from the darkness, a hiss.


	8. Partners

Joyce opens her eyes to a merry fire; a warm body curled around hers on the pine needles.

She flinches, jerks away. Arms flapping in the sleeves of an enormous blue coat. She tries to frame the questions: where? how? But her mouth isn’t quite working yet, producing only a ragged sound, panicked and animal.

Strong hands try to steady her, but she’s spent too long in the grip of malign forces to tolerate anyone’s touch right now. She throws them off. He raises his palms, placating instead. Bright blue eyes under beetling brows; pleading.

“Hopper?” she breathes.

“That’s right,” he says. “You’re okay.”

“Where are we? How-how did—?" She turns this way and that, as if the forest all around can give her answers. “Hopper, what _happened_?”

A beat, under the trees. The crackle of flames filling the silence. “What do you remember?”

_The carbine barking. Muzzle flare blinding in the dark. A piteous howl, abruptly cut off. The sense, somewhere in the dark around her, of fleeting chaos._

“I’m… not sure,” she lies. “You found me in that cave. Carried me out.”

He nods. “Yeah, um. Yeah. That’s pretty much it.”

 _He put them in the ground. All of them_.

The fact of the matter stretches between them, almost a physical thing. She’s known Hopper for _years_ ; what cigarettes he smokes, the way he likes his coffee. She didn’t know he was capable of… of that.

It scares her, but perhaps not as much as it should.

“Are they safe?”

“Owens is with them. He’s called in the troops. And—”

She flies at him like a harpy, sharp fists pounding on his chest. “Owens?” she shrieks. “You left them with _Owens_? You _left_ them?!”

“Jesus Joyce,” he barks. “Stop it, stop trying to – STOP!”

His voice rings in the quiet of the alien wood, echoing back at them from the tall trees. Her wrists are caught in his hands, holding her at bay.

“Dammit Hop,” she hears herself saying, as she stops fighting. He lets her go. “I thought that you would—”

“What, let you die?”

“Keep them _safe_.”

He sighs, and she realises this is a row he’s already had with himself. “Yeah. Maybe I should have done that.”  He scrubs his beard, substitute for saying what he really feels. “You think you can walk?”

“Yeah.” There’s raw energy fizzing in her veins again, anger lending strength she’ll surely pay for later. “Yeah, I can walk.”

“Good. There’ll be smoke when I put out the fire.” He considers things. “And we’ve probably made too much noise as it is. We need to move.”

“Where are we going?”

He nods in the direction of vaguely downhill. “That way.” 

* * *

 

They walk. And walk. A carpet of pine needles soft underfoot; the woods eerily quiet.

He lets her set the pace, pick their way through the trees. Always a few paces behind her, surprisingly quiet for someone so large.

She trips, and he catches her. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She gives him a small, tight smile. “I’m okay. Let’s keep moving.”

He sighs, unconvinced, but lets her lead on.

* * *

Her watch has stopped, somewhere in the murk underground, but the sun has travelled a long way from its zenith. It sits fat and low on the horizon now. A strange greenish tint to the twilight here. More than the quiet of the woods - more even than the monsters - the alien sunset makes her realise just how very far from home they are.

He’s still moving steadily, those long legs of his eating up the terrain, carbine in hand and shotgun over shoulder. It’s hard to reconcile this version of Hopper with the man she spends most of her time with. She thinks of him as an overgrown schoolboy – surreptitious smoker and superficial charmer – papered over the cracks of grieving father. There’s a buzz-saw fierceness to him now, tight and focussed.

He catches her eye. “You alright?”

She wipes her brow and asks the question she’s been avoiding. “How much further?”

He looks away, addresses the treeline. “Two days walking.”

She makes a face, unseen, swearing under her breath. “Okay.” Her shaking legs feel like they have about two minutes left in them, never mind days. “I’m just going to need to take a little breather...”

There’s a convenient hollow at the base of a nearby tree, soft with shed needles. She sits, gasping involuntary relief.

“Stay here,” he says, unloading the shotgun from his shoulder.

“Hey, it’s a break.” She tries to keep her tone light. “I didn’t say we were stopping.”

“We need to. And it’s as good a place as any.” He hands her the gun. “It’s loaded,” he explains. “Point and shoot. Uh, not at me.”

“Okay,” she says, metal cold under fingers. She watches him out of sight amongst the trees before allowing herself to lean back against the bark of the trunk. A small moan escapes: it’s easier to list the parts of her that _don’t_ ache than those that do.

She closes her eyes, briefly, trying to make the most of this moment of respite—

* * *

 

When she opens them again there is another fire burning, and he is sitting next to her against the tree, rifle in his hands.

“Shit.”

“Yeah, pretty much.” More like the Hop she knows than his soldier-self. “You feel any better?”

“You shouldn’t have let me sleep,” she mutters, trying to find her feet again. Muscles squeal in protest, vision strobing.

“Joyce… for Christ’s sake. There’s no light. No way to navigate—”

“I don’t care! Hop, I don’t – I don’t care. I need to get back. My boys…”

“You think I don’t want to get home? You think I trust Owens with El? That if push came to shove he wouldn’t hand her back over to the monsters that started all this in the first place—?” His voice cracks before he can continue.

She goggles. “Then why did you follow me? Why didn’t you just _stay_?”

“I don’t know! Why did you come to find me in the tunnels under Hawkins?”

“Will said you were in trouble—”

“Yeah, well, _you_ were in trouble!”

“Owens could have sent—”

“No,” he says, almost laughing at the absurdity of it. “You think they’d risk sending anyone in here after you? After what happened last time?”

“Well then, damnit Hop!” she bellows. “I guess I should thank you for saving my life!”

“Well then I guess you’re welcome!”

She’s nose-to-nose and absolutely furious with him. Which is absurd, she tells herself, trying to cool down. She gambled with her life to save them all and he came to settle the bet. For better or worse they’re partners in this.

Something in her expression must soften, some tell giving away her inner monologue. His own scowl twitches, laughter bubbling up in anger’s place. “I’m sorry,” she says. And she means it, mostly.

“Me too. Look. We’ll rest for a couple of hours and as soon as there’s light enough we can move on. Sound okay?”

“Sounds good.” She shivers. Even with the fire, it’s noticeably colder now the sun has set.

“Cold?”

There’s little point in lying when her teeth are starting to chatter. “A little.”

He extends his arm. “C’mere.”

“What about you?” she says, shuffling closer. “I’ve got your coat.”

“Well that’s the whole the point of sharing,” he says. She lets her head rest against his chest, words vibrating against her skull. “If you stay warm, I will too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry its been a while between updates folks - I broke my ankle and wasn't up to writing until now.


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